


Visit The Infidel

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cute, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, Kissing, Light-Hearted, M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 07:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18205100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: "Why are you here, Drumknott?"Drumknott stared down at Vimes, his eyes slightly wide behind his spectacles, his lips pressed loosely together. "Personal reasons, sir," he said, at length, as if simply admitting to this was unthinkable.Vimes stared at him.Drumknott cleared his throat, and looked meaningfully past Vimes, down the stairs.





	Visit The Infidel

“Oh,” Nobby said, and Constable Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets looked to him in askance, but Nobby’s gaze was pointed straight forward as they entered the bullpen at Pseudopolis Yard, and Constable Visit followed his gaze. Sitting outside Commander Vimes’ office, his briefcase neatly held in his squarely-set lap, was the figure of the Patrician’s personal clerk.

“Oh?” Constable Visit repeated, looking at the clerk critically. He was in his mid-twenties, with unfortunately youthful features that were only escalated by the perennial pinkness of his cheeks, which were slightly round. Despite the natural inclination of his features – which seemed to have been made with cheerfulness in mind – he had a severe look about him, his gaze cold, his plump lips drawn into an unnaturally thin line. He greased his hair back from his head, with a very straight parting, and he wore a very neat suit.

Whenever Constable Visit had seen him before, it had been with his clerk’s robe over top of the suit, but he didn’t have that on now, and he had set his coat – a very muted, blue affair – over the back of his chair. He somehow looked _bigger_ , without the robe on.

“That’s Mr Drumknott,” Nobby said disapprovingly.

“It is indeed, Corporal Nobbs,” Mr Drumknott said quietly: despite the fact he spoke in barely more than a whisper, his voice carried well in the room, and Constable Visit watched Nobby shiver. “Hello, Corporal Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets.”

“Hello,” Constable Visit said. He was, truth be told, somewhat surprised. No one, since he had come to Ankh-Morpork, called him by his proper name even _after_ he introduced himself, except for other Omnians: his name sounded awkward translated in Morporkian, people said, with too many words, but no one would even _try_ to pronounce the original syllables. Ankh-Morpork expected certain kinds of assimilation, after all. “Er, Mr Drumknott,” he added, feeling like his tongue was longer than usual, and that he was tripping over it: he wished there were more syllables in Mr Drumknott’s name, so that he could return the greeting he’d been given. “Hello, Mr Drumknott, is what I meant.”

Mr Drumknott looked at Constable Visit for a long moment, his neat eyebrows knitting together slightly, and forming a furrow in his forehead.

Nobby was also giving Visit a funny look, and Constable Visit coughed.

“You waiting for Commander Vimes, Mr Drumknott?”

“Indeed so, Corporal Nobbs,” Mr Drumknott said. “I have a message for him.”

“I could give it to him, if you want,” Nobby said, leaning forward on his toes.

“You could not, Corporal Nobbs,” Mr Drumknott said, with a tone of steel. “And I should keep your hands in _your_ pockets, were I you, and keep them far from mine.”

“Wouldn’t never!” protested Nobby, who suddenly took a step back from where he had been meandering closer to Mr Drumknott. Nobby tended to pickpocket – and, indeed, to pilfer small objects – in the same way most people absentmindedly scratched an itch. It was not a matter of meanspiritedness or unpleasantness, or even selfishness: it was the basest of instinct, and one he could scarcely hope to resist without some focus.

“Do go away, Corporal,” Drumknott said, with a polite smile that could have made glaciers of the holy fires of Ur. “I do not care for these contretemps of ours.”

Nobby did not understand Quirmian, but he understood dismissal well enough, and he bristled with the injustice of it. “You shouldn’t talk to me like that, Mr Drumknott! I’m old enough to be your dad!”

Mr Drumknott arched his eyebrows. “You are old enough, perhaps, Corporal Nobbs, to be my especially unbeloved uncle. Happily for us both, however, we bear no relation to one another whatsoever.” Nobby stomped away to put the kettle on, leaving Constable Visit standing directly in front of Mr Drumknott, who looked at him with mild curiosity.

“Do forgive me,” Drumknott said quietly. “It’s the only way to keep him from trying to pick my pockets.”

Visit gave a slow nod of his head. “How did you know my name?” he asked.

“Constable Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets, badge number 243, of Manete’s Omnian Watchhouse on Wattley Street,” Mr Drumknott said casually, with a delicate shrug of narrow shoulders. He didn’t seem to even be thinking all that hard about it. “I know everybody in the City Watch, Constable, by name and badge number.”

Visit looked down at Mr Drumknott for a long moment. “Why?”

“It’s my job,” Mr Drumknott said.

“Oh,” Constable Visit said. “I thought it might be because I’m an Omnian.”

Mr Drumknott seemed to consider this. “Ankh-Morpork is full of immigrants, Constable. Our own Patrician’s father was a native Brindisian.”

“We might be enemies of the state,” Visit said, albeit half-heartedly.

“Are you?” Mr Drumknott asked.

“No,” Visit admitted.

“Good,” Mr Drumknott said.

Constable Visit was left in the uncertain position of wanting to continue a conversation without having scripture as a basis for it. He elected for reaching for the obvious. “Are you familiar with the word of Om?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mr Drumknott said. There was a short pause. Mr Drumknott gave Constable Visit a very small, polite smile, leaning forward slightly. “Why do you ask?”

“People don’t usually say _yes_ ,” Constable Visit said. “I haven’t seen you at the temple!”

“I’m not an Omnian,” Drumknott said. “But I have perused your holy books.”

“You’re not an atheist, are you?” Visit asked anxiously, unsure why it struck him as so especially important that Mr Drumknott should say no.

“No,” Mr Drumknott said, and Constable Visit felt himself relax, letting out a short, breathless laugh. Mr Drumknott’s thin smile widened by a fraction of an inch.”

“Would you— Would you like a pamphlet?” he asked.

“Alright,” Mr Drumknott said.

Visit stared at him. People who said _yes_ were very few and far between, and he was somewhat thrown by receiving an assent. Mr Drumknott looked up at him expectantly, and it took Visit a few moments before he turned and scrambled through his satchel for a hard binder, which kept his pamphlets uncreased and unwrinkled as he carried them on his person.

Drumknott looked at it with undisguised approval, and when Visit handed him the pamphlet, their fingers brushed against one another. Mr Drumknott’s fingers were cold against his skin, and surprisingly hard for a clerk’s: Constable Visit could see a mess of scars and burns over his palms and his fingers as Mr Drumknott delicately retracted his hand with a copy of _Unadorned Facts_.

Mr Drumknott stood to his feet, and Constable Visit was aware of the difference between their heights: Visit was lanky and rather tall, but Mr Drumknott was short and compact, a little bit shorter even than Commander Vimes.

“I like your suit,” Constable Visit blurted out.

Mr Drumknott’s smile, which had flitted away from his features, returned, and he gave a small bow of his head. Constable Visit could see his cheeks darken a little in colour. “Thank you, Constable. You’re very kind. Watch Commander.”

“Hello, Drumknott,” Vimes said, coming up in line with Visit’s shoulder and giving him an uncertain look. “Constable Visit isn’t bothering you, is he?”

“No, your grace,” Drumknott said as he followed Vimes into his office, and Constable Visit stared wordlessly after him. “Not at all.” The door closed behind them with a click, and Constable Visit was only aware he was stood there, still staring at the door, when Nobby pushed him in the hip.

“You alright?” he asked. “You’re sorta… staring.”

“Oh,” Constable Visit said. “Yes, yes, I’m alright.”

“Cuppa tea?” Nobby offered, with a friendly smile that would make many people run in fear, but Constable Visit was almost used to it, at this point, and manfully supressed a shudder in the face of it.

“Thank you very much,” Visit said, and took the mug.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“Doing research for his lordship, Mr Drumknott?” asked Mrs Triplett, the housekeeper at the Patrician’s Palace, and Drumknott looked up from the pamphlet Constable Visit had given him, which he had been reading idly at the dinner table. He often read at the dinner table, once they had finished their respective meals: it was pleasant to take a moment in the warmth of the servants’ hall to take ten or fifteen minutes’ break before he ascended the stair and returned to the Oblong Office.

“Research of my own, Mrs Triplett,” Drumknott said, dipping his quill once more in a bottle of red ink, and circling a spelling error. There were several in the pamphlet: it was evident that it had been written by someone with a lot of passion, but no especial understanding of punctuation, grammar, nor traditional sentence structure.

He had never met Constable Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets before, but he was… _pleasant_. Kinder than Drumknott had expected: some of the Omnians were very forceful in their attempts to convert new prospects, but he had seemed… shy.

It had been endearing.

And he was—

Attractive, after a fashion.

Striking, one might call him: his nose was strongly-proportioned, although the tip of it was soft, as if it had been blunted; he had stubble across his cheeks, the dark shadow of a man who shaves every morning and finds it insufficient; he had drooping eyelids over dark-hued eyes. His skin was the handsome, warmly brown colour of aged parchment, with dark eyelashes the colour of ink.

“I ought return to work,” Drumknott said, stoppering his ink bottle. “Good night, ladies, gentlemen.”

The servants chorused their good nights to him, and Drumknott left the room.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“Ah, Constable,” said a quiet voice, and Constable Visit turned his head to look at Mr Drumknott. He was wearing his coat and a pair of gloves, a thick, woollen scarf wound around his neck, tucked beneath his coat. Constable Visit was waiting outside of a café for Sergeant Colon, and he hadn’t thought it had been _especially_ cold, although Ankh-Morpork could get very cold indeed, in winter.

He had the Patrician’s dog on a leash beside him, leaning against Drumknott’s ankle and panting quietly. He was an old dog, Visit thought: his muzzle was beginning to grey about the face, and he had watery eyes and uneven teeth. _Wuffles_ , its name was.

Mr Drumknott had been stabbed, before Hogswatch, by the people who’d kidnapped the dog. Visit knew that.

“Hello, Mr Drumknott,” Constable Visit said, leaning toward him.

“Here,” Mr Drumknott said, and drew from his briefcase a pamphlet, holding it out. Visit stared down at it, crestfallen to recognise the very issue of _Unadorned Truth_ he had handed to the clerk the week previous. People didn’t normally give them _back_. They just quietly threw them away. It seemed kinder, somehow, to do that.

"What's this?" Constable Visit asked, staring down at the paper Mr Drumknott pressed delicately into his hand, the soft, supple leather of his gloves brushing against Visit’s gauntleted hands, and Visit almost wished they both had bare hands again. "Didn’t you read it?"

"Of course," Mr Drumknott said, but Visit already had it open, and was looking through the pages, looking at the neat, red ink circling some words and fragments of sentences. "I made some small corrections to spelling and punctuation, as well as including some formatting suggestions, that might allow for ease of reading and more efficient use of the page... And there was a citation of Ossuary 4:7, which I believe was meant to be 4:17. I made a notation."

Constable Visit was looking down at Mr Drumknott, he was vaguely aware, with the expression of a thirsty man who had never before known water. He didn’t know what he was thirsty for, exactly. He tried to reach for scripture, but no appropriate quotes made themselves known.

"Oh," he said hoarsely. "Would you— Would you like another? Pamphlet?"

Mr Drumknott smiled. "Yes," he said. "Alright."

“Ah!” said Sergeant Colon as he stepped from the café, looking at Mr Drumknott with his small eyes wide with panic. “Mr Drumknott!”

“Hello, Sergeant,” Mr Drumknott said. His gaze never left Visit’s face, and Visit laughed softly, unsure what was funny, as he grabbed in his satchel for another pamphlet, handing it over. The one that Mr Drumknott had corrected and made notes upon, he gently set in pride of place atop the others in his file box, and set it back into his satchel. In parallel to his own movements, Mr Drumknott delicately put his new pamphlet into his briefcase.

“Do you need a Watch escort, Mr Drumknott, back to the Palace?” Constable Visit asked, his tongue feeling clumsy in his mouth. “For— For safety?”

“I respect your sense of duty, Constable,” Mr Drumknott said mildly, “but I promise you, I don’t plan to do anybody any harm.”

Constable Visit took a moment, and when he digested what Mr Drumknott said, he laughed too loud and too high, the sound ripping from his throat, and Mr Drumknott looked up at him with a warm smile on his face even as Visit felt embarrassment burn at the back of his neck and the front of his chest.

“Oh,” he said, aware of the way Sergeant Colon was looking between the two of them with a face wrought with confusion, and aware of how he was breathing heavily himself. “No, I meant— I meant, er, to protect… you.”

“Yes,” Mr Drumknott said. His cheeks were blushing too. “I know. But I’ll be alright, I think, without your watchful eye.”

“Watchful,” Visit said, a little too fast. “A punne!”

“Not really,” Mr Drumknott said, taking a step back, and giving him a small smile as he patted his hip, letting Wuffles waddle after him, back in the direction of Broadway. “Goodbye, Sergeant. Constable.”

“Goodbye,” Constable Visit called after him, waving, although Mr Drumknott did not look back to look at him.

“You’re trying to convert the Patrician’s clerk?” Colon asked, sounding sceptical. “You really do pick your targets, eh, Washpot?”

“He’s a nice man,” Visit said defensively. “He took one pamphlet, last week, and this week, he took another.”

“There’s naught so queer as folk,” Sergeant Colon said lowly, shaking his head, as if this behaviour of Drumknott’s was very suspicious. “What was that, about giving him an escort?”

“Well, he was stabbed the month before last!” Visit said.

“He’s a dangerous little bugger, though,” Colon said, shaking his head. “He would’ve stabbed _them_ if they’d not caught him by surprise, I expect.”

Constable Visit did not consider this, in depth, until he was back at home, and lying in his bed with the candle doused, in the dark. _I promise you_ , he said, _I don’t plan to do anybody any harm_. What sort of harm could he do? He was only a little man, but—

 _Dangerous little bugger_.

He did work in the Patrician’s Palace. He did…

Constable Visit coughed, and turned over in his bed, pressing his knees together.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“You stopped to talk to Constable Visit?” Lord Vetinari asked, and Drumknott glanced up from the editing work he was doing at his own desk in the Oblong Office, his quill scratching quietly upon the minutes from the Thieves’ Guild meeting, making small notations upon relevant information and contrasting it with the information they’d already gleaned this week from other meetings.

Vetinari was perusing the Dark Clerks’ notes upon Drumknott’s movements earlier than afternoon – this was not because Vetinari distrusted him, but because Drumknott had made a delivery to the Assassins’ Guild to see who might follow him in the wake of this delivery.

“I saw him outside Darden’s Café,” Drumknott agreed, setting his quill gently down. “I had a pamphlet of his, upon which I had made some notes for edit.”

“And he gave you another,” Vetinari said, in the voice of one trying his best to understand a natural contradiction.

“Yes,” Drumknott said.

“ _Why_?” Vetinari asked patiently.

“He asked me if I would like another,” Drumknott said. “I said yes.”

“Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari said slowly, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his seat, his thin lips quirking up at their edges, “are you, or are you not, a devotee of Blind Io?”

“Yes, sir,” Drumknott said.

“You have no ambitions of conversion?”

“No, sir,” Drumknott said. “Not at all.”

“Then, my dear man, why would you take _multiple_ pamphlets from an Omnian missionary?” Drumknott said nothing, but he levelly met the Patrician’s amused gaze, and for a long moment, they rested in silence, before Vetinari said, “You know, Drumknott, there are times wherein directness is called for.” He did care, about Drumknott. Drumknott knew that, that Vetinari cared, about Drumknott, as a person, as a friend. He cared, too, about the Patrician, in kind. 

“I don’t disagree, sir,” Drumknott said. “But in this case, I should favour subtlety in my pursuit.”

Vetinari chuckled, quietly: his smile was warm and fond, and _supportive_ , Drumknott felt. He was always supportive, when Drumknott reached for one man or other, although he had not for quite some time—

Constable Visit was not the sort of man he usually took up with.

“Good luck, Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari murmured, and Drumknott smiled as he returned to his work.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

Vimes stopped on the stair.

Drumknott also stopped, because Vimes was standing in the middle of the stair, and as small as he was, the stairs in the watchhouse were narrow, and he would have had to flatten himself against the wall for a chance of coming past him.

"Drumknott," Vimes said, his brow furrowing.

"Good morning, Watch Commander," Drumknott said.

"Patrician upstairs?"

"No, sir."

"Patrician been here?"

"No, sir."

"Delivering another message?"

"No, sir."

Vimes considered this for a long moment, trying to think of another explanation for the presence of the personal clerk to the Patrician would be in Pseudopolis Yard, and be _caught_ here. It was a little before half-past seven, and he was just coming off the night shift, dropping off a report before he walked home. It was an early hour even for the Patrician’s clerk. "Why are you here, Drumknott?"

Drumknott stared down at Vimes, his eyes slightly wide behind his spectacles, his lips pressed loosely together. "Personal reasons, sir," he said, at length, as if simply admitting to this was unthinkable.

Vimes stared at him.

Drumknott cleared his throat, and looked meaningfully past Vimes, down the stairs.

“Er, right,” Vimes said, stepping to the left, and he let Mr Drumknott walk past him, out of Pseudopolis Yard and, presumably, back to the Palace. Frowning, he came into the bullpen, his brow furrowed, and he glanced around the room for an explanation.

He found Constable Visit in the kitchen, washing out a pair of coffee mugs. He inhaled, smelling an unfamiliar scent in the little room: oats and fruit, he thought, maybe some yoghurt?

“What’s that smell?”

“Oh, Commander,” Visit said, turning and greeting him with a smart salute. “It’s muesli, sir. Er— Mr Drumknott brought some, for breakfast. He knew I was starting my shift as the nightworkers came off, sir.”

“Mr Drumknott brought muesli… For the day shift?” Vimes said, even as his brain caught up with Visit’s use of the personal pronoun, and the fact that the younger man’s dusky cheeks were reddening. “You two had breakfast together. Right.”

“Is that alright, sir?”

“There’s no city law against it,” Vimes said, trying to ignore his own discomfort. It took all sorts, after all: they had golems in the Watch, now, and dwarves, and gnomes, and trolls. There was nothing wrong with tailors, and he knew that, he _knew_ that—

Although he wouldn’t have expected it from Constable Visit.

“Isn’t there—” he asked, already regretting asking Constable Visit a question to do with his religion, which no one usually dared to do, “isn’t there, you know, religious doctrine against it, though?”

“Against muesli, sir?” Visit asked. “No, no, you’re thinking of the meat of a goat, sir.”

“Er,” Vimes said. “No, I meant—”

He gave up.

“Righto, lad,” he said, and walked to his office.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

They’d had breakfast together three times, now.

Mr Drumknott always seemed to know Constable Visit’s schedule, probably because a lot of the Watch’s information passed over his desk in the Patrician’s Palace, and it was… It was _nice_ , when he appeared, because he often just drank coffee in the mornings, instead of having breakfast—

Or, he _had_ been drinking coffee.

Mr Drumknott didn’t usually drink coffee, and _he_ drank a lot of varied teas. He’d suggested some he thought Constable Visit might like, and Visit did like them, liked all their different scents and tastes.

“This is made of dissen root,” Drumknott said quietly on their fourth occasion of breakfast together, and Visit inhaled deeply at the edge of the mug, taking in the strangely flowery scent of it. It didn’t taste as bitter as he had expected a root to taste. “It will lower your blood pressure: it’s ideal for stress.”

“Sounds like witchcraft,” Visit said.

“Yes,” Mr Drumknott said demurely. “My aunt is a witch.”

“Oh,” Visit said. “Oh. Right. Yes. But— But the Book of Om says witches… Witches oughtn’t be allowed to live.”

“That’s alright,” Drumknott said. “Witches don’t believe in gods: nor are they beholden to scripture.” Visit felt himself frown slightly, but Drumknott did not seem unkind or mocking in the way he spoke, sipping at his mug. They were sitting outside in the yard, settled against the edge of the wall, and Visit cupped the mug a little more tightly in his palms.

“You— You aren’t… Omnian,” he said.

“No,” Drumknott agreed.

“But you’re religious?”

“I’m a devotee of Blind Io,” Drumknott said.

“A heathen god,” Visit said. “You’re an infidel.”

“And you visit me with pamphlets,” Drumknott said, reaching forward and touching the tips of his fingers against the polished metal of Visit’s breastplate[1]. Visit stared down at his fingers, feeling his mind stop in his tracks, and he didn’t know why, didn’t know why he was arrested as he looked at Drumknott’s hard, strong hand, _touching_ him.

“The Patrician is an atheist,” Visit said, “that’s worse.”

Mr Drumknott laughed. He didn’t retract his hand, but leaned forward, looking up at him. “Lord Vetinari isn’t an atheist,” Drumknott said, shaking his head. Constable Visit frowned, taking this in.

“Isn’t— Isn’t he?”

“No,” Drumknott said. “If a Creator exists, Lord Vetinari despises them… And you have to believe in them to do that. One might call him agnostic, but I believe the Patrician does believe that a Creator exists. With that said, I think he should like to physically fight the Creator in question.”

“Blasphemy,” Visit said.

“Interrogative thought,” Drumknott replied. “If a Creator, Omniscient, Omnipotent, and All-Powerful, has created the world about us, wrought with sin, and suffering, and pain, how might He claim Himself worthy of morality?”

“You cannot judge Om by our standard of morality,” Visit said, furrowing his brow. “He is apart from us, above us, all about us: he allows suffering not to punish us, but to challenge us to be better, that we might elevate our souls.”

“Then He should allow a thousand, a hundred thousand, souls to suffer and wallow and die, for the sake of one soul apart, sanctified? How worthy, how deserving, might a soul be, to warrant such sacrifice? What moral God might place so many cries in the night against one ascension, side-by-side upon a scale?”

“You really have read my pamphlets,” Constable Visit said breathlessly.

“And I often dance this dance with my employer,” Drumknott murmured, his tone rueful. Constable Visit felt a strange burst of envy, that Mr Drumknott should speak with the Patrician about religion, where he is undeserving, uncaring: he wished he might spend such time with Drumknott, hearing his opinions, hearing him talk. “He is more vicious about it than you are.”

“It isn’t in my nature to be vicious,” Visit confessed, his hand moving up almost without his permission, and he let his fingers brush against the back of Drumknott’s hand where it rested on his chest, feeling the coldness of it. “I do try. I should be ready to rain holy fire on the heads of those who are cruel and unworthy, but I… It is hard, I think, to be the Hand of Justice. Better to be the Voice of Reason.”

“Each has its place,” Drumknott said, leaning closer, close enough that his chin almost brushed against Visit’s breastplate, and Visit was looking down directly at him. His heart was beating fast beneath his armour, his head reeling, although he did not know why. There was something about Mr Drumknott that simply… He did not know. Visit was absently rubbing his thumb over the back of Drumknott’s hand where he held it against his chest, warming it up slightly by gripping it in his own. Drumknott said, “I have a day off, on Octeday.”

“Oh,” Constable Visit said. “Me too.”

“We might run into one another,” Drumknott said meaningfully. “Perhaps in the afternoon, we might promenade?”

“With your dog?” Visit asked.

Mr Drumknott laughed, shaking his head. “The Patrician’s dog, not mine. No, just you and I, Constable Visit-The-Infidel-With-Pamphlets. We might continue this philosophical discussion.”

“Do you like philosophy?” Visit asked.

“Funny that you should ask,” Mr Drumknott said. “I quite despise it.”

“And you would walk with me to talk about it?”

“Why not?”

“I’m prosletyzing,” Visit said, although he hated to do so.

“But after the hour of four, on an Octeday, you must not knock on any doors.”

“Yes,” Visit said, feeling his cheeks burn.

“Then we might meet at four-thirty.”

“Oh. Yes. We… Yes.”

“I have to go to work,” Drumknott said.

“That’s a shame,” Visit said.

“You’ll have to release my hand,” Drumknott said, and Visit stared down at Drumknott’s hand, and then he reluctantly let it go. He liked Drumknott’s hand under his own, he realised. Drumknott’s palm was smaller than his, but he liked how it felt in his grip. “I’ll meet you on the Maudlin Bridge?”

“Alright,” Constable Visit said. “Yes. Please. I would… I would like that.”

“See you, Constable.”

“See you,” Visit echoed.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“You’re smiling, Mr Drumknott,” Lord Vetinari said mildly.

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott murmured, tidying some of the files on the Patrician’s desk. He had been smiling all day, in fact, albeit in the way that Mr Drumknott smiled. It was a small, secretarial smile, a slight upturn of his lips at their very edges, subtle and delicate in its crescent shape. “My apologies, my lord.”

“No apology is necessary for your high mood, Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari said, and he smiled himself, paging through a report. “You still wish for a reprieve, this Octeday?”

“Yes, sir. Please.”

“Very well.”

“The crossword, my lord?”

“Please.”

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“You needn’t walk with me,” Constable Visit said as they came back toward the Maudlin Bridge, and beside him, Smite-The-Unbeliever-With-Cunning-Arguments crossed her arms over her chest, frowning deeply.

“Who are you meeting?” she asked.

“No one of note,” Visit said.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“Is she pretty?”

“ _No_.” Smite gave him a cunning look. He was accustomed to her having a cunning look on her face. “It’s not a _she_ , it’s a _he_ , and we’re not— It’s not to do with, with conversion. He works in the Patrician’s Palace.”

“You’re not _working_ , are you?” Smite demanded. “It’s a holy day!”

“No, I’m not working,” Visit said.

“Then he’s your friend?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“From work?”

“Er— No, not really.”

“Constable Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets,” Mr Drumknott said, and Visit turned to look at him, staring at his outfit. He wasn’t wearing a suit, today. He’d never seen Mr Drumknott without a suit on. Instead, Mr Drumknott was wearing some black trousers, and a shirt and his ever present necktie, and a _jumper_. A jumper! It was a thick jumper, made of black, corded wool, and it had obviously been made _for_ Drumknott’s body, because it hugged tight to his arms, to his chest, his belly.

He was wearing his gloves, and he was just shrugging on his coat – he’d stepped from a nearby stationery shop.

“And Miss Smite-The-Unbeliever-With-Cunning-Arguments, isn’t it?” Mr Drumknott asked pleasantly.

Smite stared at him.

“How did you—”

“It’s his job,” Visit said hurriedly. “Mr Drumknott sees a lot of public records.”

“Oh, working for the Patrician,” Smite said slowly. “You’re a clerk?”

“Yes,” Drumknott said pleasantly.

“Are you an infidel?”

“Yes,” Drumknott said, equally pleasantly.

Smite opened her mouth, but Visit patted her shoulder.

He didn’t know why he felt so _annoyed_ that she should be lingering – he usually liked to spend time with Smite, walking alongside her through the streets and making light conversation as they knocked on doors and watched people hide behind their furniture through their windows. Right now, though, he wanted her _elsewhere_ , that he and Drumknott might be—

Alone.

“See you, Smite,” he said.

She gave him a funny look, but said slowly, “Nice to meet you, Mr Drumknott.”

“And you too, Miss,” he said, with a small nod of his head. He didn’t shake her hand, Visit noticed: a lot of modern Omnians didn’t mind if men touched the hands of unmarried girls, but Smite didn’t like it if men touched her without permission, her family and Visit excluded, and Drumknott didn’t so much as offer his hand to shake. She walked back toward Nap Hill, and for a moment, they were still, looking at one another.

He didn’t know if he should feel uncertain, that Mr Drumknott knew so much about people, without knowing them. But he didn’t use it for harm, Visit didn’t think.

“How are you today, Constable Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory Pamphlets?”

“You don’t have to use the whole name,” Visit offered, as they walked across the Maudlin Bridge. “If you, er, if you don’t… wish to, that is. I know that people find my name to be a mouthful.”

“I’ve never been certain of nicknames,” Drumknott said.

“It’s shorter,” Visit said. “In Omnian. But people won’t try it, in Omnian. And I have another name, though, too, it’s a… I have an Omnian _given_ name, that my family and my friends call me, that I write on holy contracts, and then this name, which can be translated. It is like a title one gives one’s children, a wish for the skill they should have, or the work they should do.”

 “What is your given name?” Drumknott asked. “If I might ask?”

“Omnaliah.”

“Omnaliah,” Drumknott repeated, and Visit felt himself shiver, to hear Drumknott’s quiet voice and lightly plump lips wrap around his name. His Morporkian accent didn’t take away from it. It sounded… nice. “It’s a beautiful name.”

“It means Om is exalted,” Visit said. “And your given name, Mr Drumknott, do you… Of course you have one, but, what… What is it?”

“Rufus,” Drumknott said. “It means red-headed.”

“But you aren’t red-headed.”

“In the summer, my hair lightens somewhat. It’s redder, then. And, ah,” Drumknott lowered his voice, and said, “and the hair on my head is darker than elsewhere.” Visit stared at him, blankly, and then understanding dawned, trickling down his spine like warm water. He swallowed. He imagined Mr Drumknott, nude, and—

“I like your jumper,” he said, trying to force away the thought, so inappropriate, so unexpected.

“It was a gift, this Hogswatch,” Drumknott said. I wasn’t able to wear it for some time – it was difficult to raise my arms to put it on.”

“Because you were stabbed,” Visit said, and then worried that this was insensitive. He was often insensitive, he was told, although he didn’t mean to be. “Does it still hurt?”

“When it’s going to rain, I feel the change in air pressure, and it aches,” Drumknott said, reaching up and touching the side of his shoulder. The Patrician, Captain Carrot had said, had kept Drumknott close to hand, when he’d been injured, had been furious that his clerk had been hurt. He didn’t like it, Commander Vimes said, when his staff were injured or killed in the line of duty. “But it is no more painful than other old ills of mine.”

“Who gave it to you?” Visit asked, hurrying too fast to change the subject, and he winced at his own haste, but if Drumknott noticed, he didn’t draw attention to the fact.

“The Archchancellor of the University,” Drumknott said. “Archchancellor Ridcully.”

“Oh,” Visit said. “Do you— Do you know him well?”

“Quite well. He’s a kind man. I jog with him, at times.”

“ _Jog_?”

“He’s fond of jogging. I like _your_ cardigan, Constable.”

“Thank you,” Visit said quietly, and he wondered how best he might ask, that Mr Drumknott should use his given name again, that he should speak to him… _personally_. Was that a breach in propriety? Ankh-Morporkians seemed to be so casual in their manners, but not Mr Drumknott: he was delicately proper, and yet—

He _wanted_ him to use his name. He wanted to hear the Omnian on Drumknott’s tongue. He wanted to ask Mr Drumknott to take his arm, that they might walk arm-in-arm – friends did that, didn’t they? Or he might take Drumknott’s hand in his own again, he might warm it—

“Have you been to the UU Library before?” Drumknott asked. They were just coming into Sator Square, and Visit looked to the great gates of the University, slowly shaking his head.

“No,” he said. “No, no.”

“I just need to pick something up,” Drumknott said apologetically, stepping across Sator Square and toward the campus’ entrance. “Do you mind?” Visit did mind. His mind rang out with hesitation, with quote after quote: it did not do well for one to linger where wizards tread; magic was wicked and would drive one to ruin; one ought trust only in the holy word of Om, and not the words that went against his making of the world.

“Oh,” Visit said, but Mr Drumknott was already leading the way, his short legs moving deceptively fast – a jogger! – and Visit hurried to follow him. He lead the way into a great building, and Visit looked at the dozens of high bookshelves on every side, his breath catching in his throat.

“Hello, Mr Librarian,” Drumknott said quietly, and Visit looked to the Librarian, who was sitting at his desk and reading a book about plants. Visit waved at him.

“Ook,” the Librarian said mildly, returning the wave with one absent-minded foot.

And then Drumknott’s hand came back for Visit’s own, his cold, thin fingers interlinking loosely with Visit’s broader, clumsier ones. Visit’s breath caught in his throat, and he didn’t even think to complain as Drumknott led him into the stacks of the Library’s wide-reaching and infinite shelves, but his heart was pounding in his ears.

People got lost in the Library.

He knew that, he knew that – some of the student wizards got lost for decades, and came out again as Heads of Department, fifty years older; some people went missing and never came back, and he scarcely dared to glance at the shelves as they passed them by on each side, hearing the books whisper and fidget on their shelves.

It wasn’t that he was frightened of the Library.

Om would protect him, he knew, Om would protect him against all ills, all injury, against harm and horror, but—

But people went _missing_. Occult forces of unimaginable proportion, unimaginable sources, sent them unto the ether, potentially to never return. And even with faith, even though he knew he had Om’s protection, it was—

It was frightening.

“Oh, Mr Drumknott,” he said anxiously, feeling the hairs stand up on the back of his neck as he tried to focus on Drumknott’s hand, on his body, on the back of his neck. “I really shouldn’t, we really—”

“It’s alright, Constable,” Mr Drumknott said, turning back to look at him, and offering him an encouraging smile that made Visit’s stomach flip. His teeth, which were very clean owing to a complicated dental hygiene routine, seemed very white in the dim light from the lamps. “I’ve got hold of you, I won’t let you go. You’re quite safe.”

“You won’t let me go?” Visit repeated, wondering why the words felt so significant, wondering why he wanted to commit them to memory that he might quote them with his scripture forevermore.

“No,” Drumknott promised. “No, I won’t.”

He kept walking.

“How are you so confident?” Visit asked as Drumknott made turns, leading them in amongst tall shelves that all looked the same to him, with so many books, so many—

“I grew up in this library,” Drumknott said. “I know it inside out.”

“Isn’t it infinite?”

“All libraries are infinite.”

Drumknott came to a stop before a great, oak door, and Visit stared at it, but Drumknott didn’t even waver: with his spare hand, he turned the handle and pushed it open, and he drew Visit into a small, plush room with dark shelves against the walls, decorated with gilt.

“I may have been… deceptive,” Drumknott said softly, turning around and pushing the door closed. He had to lean across Visit’s body to do so, and Visit felt light-headed, his mouth dry.

“You oughtn’t lie,” he said. “It’s a sin.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” Drumknott said. His fingers were resting on the side of Visit’s hip, and Visit was hyperaware of his hand’s weight against his waist, against the woollen fabric of his brown cardigan— “They have many holy books in here.”

“Holy books?”

“Omnian holy books,” Drumknott said.

Visit stared around the room.

He saw different copies of the Book of Om, in different bindings, different additions, some of them in Morporkian or Omnian, others in different languages, _ancient_ languages; he saw books of religious philosophy, proofs of Om, of ethics; he saw manuscripts of prophecy, of doctrine…

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, we don’t even— We don’t even have this much in the temple library.”

“I thought you’d like it,” Drumknott said. His chest was up against Visit’s, now, one of his hands tight on Visit’s hip, the other roughly entangled with his fingers.

“You’re… You’re very thoughtful,” Visit said. “Thank you. This is— This is kind.”

“Kindness doesn’t come naturally to me,” Drumknott said softly, in the air of one confessing. “But I try. It is… _hard_ , I believe, difficult, to be kind where one is inclined to rage. It is hard to be soft, in the face of a world that drives such blades into soft edges.”

“Blind Io preaches kindness?”

“Not especially,” Drumknott said. “But I believe that although one has faced suffering, one ought do one’s best to repair that suffering in others. One feels pain keenly: I choose to believe the world has shown one pain, that one should feel more keenly the need to save others from suffering.”

“That sounds noble,” Visit said. “For an infidel.”

“Do you think?” Drumknott asked, his lips shifting into a slight smile.

“Are you going to kiss me?” Visit asked, hearing how hoarse his voice was, how it cracked in the middle. He had never kissed anybody before, not ever, not _ever_ , and it was wrong of him, he thought, to want it.

“I would like to,” Drumknott said.

“The Book of Om says that a man who lies with a man, as he lies with a woman, is an abomination.”

“Have you ever lain with a woman?”

“No.”

“Then we’re in the clear.”

Visit frowned. “I don’t think that’s how it—”

Drumknott’s lips weren’t like his hands. They weren’t cold, or hard, or rough: they were soft and warm and smooth where they brushed against his own, and his tongue flicked against Visit’s, and it was—

It was _good_. Sparks seemed to play in Visit’s head, bursting behind his eyes as he kissed Drumknott back, grasping at handfuls of his jumper and pulling him closer, letting Drumknott lean up on his tiptoes to kiss him more deeply, more fervently, with such passion as Visit had ever known, and Visit felt faint, felt as if he might walk upon air itself—

Drumknott drew away, touching the side of his cheek, and Visit leaned into it, swaying on his unsteady feet.

“More?” Visit asked. It was the only syllable he could force his lips to form around, and he heard Drumknott’s quiet laugh. "Rufus?"

“Yes, Omnaliah,” he said primly, and drew Visit to sit down with him upon a low couch in the middle of the room, and they lay side-by-side, kissing, kissing—

Just kissing.

And it was unfathomable.

It was _divine_.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“So,” Vimes said. “You and Visit.”

“Yes, sir,” Drumknott said, arching an eyebrow as Vimes signed the paper Drumknott had set in front of him – one that needed to be _quietly_ taken around, and kept on Mr Drumknott’s person. “You have a comment?”

“Oh, no,” Vimes said. “Not worth my salt to comment on a thing like that.”

Mr Drumknott gave him a small, secretarial smile.  

“You’re very kind, your grace,” he said.

“Nope,” Vimes said, shoving the paper back. “How many Guilds you have to go to after this?”

“Six.”

“Take him with you, if you want. Protection.”

There was a moment’s pause, as Mr Drumknott looked at Vimes, and then he smiled wide enough that Vimes could see his teeth. He had never seen Drumknott smile that brightly before. It made him look his actual _age_ , instead of the usual younger-than age his face defaulted to.

“ _Very_ kind, your grace,” Drumknott said softly. “Thank you.”

“Go away,” Vimes muttered, waving his hand, and Drumknott went on fleet feet out of the door. Vimes looked after his exit, and then he thought of Sybil, at home, later this evening. He’d finish early today, he thought.

Give her a surprise.

There was a knock on the door, and Vimes looked up to the face of Constable Visit as it poked in the door. “ _May Om reward your work, and promote you, and give you a commendation-and-or-certificate, for kindness will be ever rewarded._ That’s Aphasians, sir.”

“ _What_ , Visit?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Get _out_ , Visit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Close the door.”

“Yes, sir!” Visit said, and saluted.

The door closed.

Sam Vimes lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair, and smiled.

 

[1] Buff as he might, however, it could not match the beautiful sheen of Captain Carrot’s.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). You can send requests [on Tumblr](http://patricianandclerk.tumblr.com/ask), too. Requests always open.


End file.
